


Potpie

by TheFalconWarrior



Series: Life is a Rollercoaster (A Big, Twisty One) [24]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred and Bruce are trying, Dick is a kiddo, Gen, The joys of eight-year-olds, family traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23207170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFalconWarrior/pseuds/TheFalconWarrior
Summary: Alfred and Bruce find out about one of Dick and Mary Grayson's traditions, and help Dick keep it alive.
Relationships: Alfred Pennyworth & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Life is a Rollercoaster (A Big, Twisty One) [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1410376
Comments: 21
Kudos: 184





	Potpie

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #24: Chop  
> ...yeah, my thoughts tend to wander a mile from the prompt before becoming a story...so they don't always quite make sense lol.

“What are you doing?” 

Alfred turned away from the simmering vegetables to look down at the little boy at his elbow. Well, a ways below his elbow. 

“Cooking dinner, Master Richard.” 

“Cool!” the boy beamed, then placed his hands on the counter and boosted himself up. 

“Master Richard,” Alfred said disapprovingly, eying the child nestled between the cutting board and spice bottles, not two feet from the hot stove. 

“Sorry,” Richard said, “’s easier to _see_ from here.” He leaned over towards the pan. “Whatcha makin’?” 

Alfred sighed, resigned, and gently placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder to straighten him. “Be mindful of the stove, please, Master Richard. I am preparing Kung Pao chicken.” 

“Never heard of it,” Richard said cheerfully. “Sounds cool, though. Can I help? I used to help Mom. She made the _best_ potpies. I think I kinda remember how to make them, actually. Hey Alfie! I have an _awesome_ idea. Do you think we could try to make potpie? Like Mom did? I’m _prettty_ sure I remember how to make it.” 

_Good heavens_. Alfred couldn’t begin to imagine the kind of disaster that could result. 

But he made the mistake of turning to the boy to answer. 

Alfred had raised Bruce Wayne since he was ten years old. He could admit he was not particularly skilled in the art of childrearing, but still, he had often despaired at the brooding manner the child had adopted after his parents’ deaths, and never lost. 

It was only now that Alfred thought perhaps he should be grateful that that dark disposition had kept his charge from discovering a powerful weapon. 

Richard was looking at him with wide, pleading blue eyes. 

Alfred prided himself in being a strong-willed man. But Lord only knows how he would’ve _ever_ been able to rein in Master Bruce if he’d learned the power of...what did they call it...puppy-dog eyes. 

Although perhaps it may have acclimated him to deal with _this_ child. 

He hoped. 

But Master Dick’s wide, bright eyes were so full of hope and longing, there was only one thing Alfred could say. 

“Well, I suppose we’ll find out together.” 

Alfred fought the twitch of his lips as he watched his charges at the dinner table. 

Bruce, face bemused, poked at his plate with a fork. 

Young Richard shoved his own fork into his mouth and chewed, thoughtfully. 

Swallowed. 

“It tastes... _almost_ the same?” he offered. 

Bruce eyed him, then Alfred, raising an eyebrow. 

Alfred raised an eyebrow back. 

Bruce placed a small forkful into his mouth and looked more confused than ever. 

“So.” Alfred hid his amusement as he turned to his charge. “Can I know what that was all about?” 

“An experiment in cooking,” Alfred said sagely. “Master Richard wanted to test his recall skills.” 

“His...what?” 

Alfred sobered. “He recalled cooking pot pies with his mother. We were attempting to see if we could replicate the recipe.” 

He stopped to think consider the matter. He truly regretted that their little...adventure in cooking had not gone better than it had. The poor lad was still grieving, and attempting Mary Grayson’s recipe had felt a little like an attempt at...remembrance. 

And Richard had enjoyed the cooking process, that was for sure, if the constant chatter and gleam in his eye had been any indication. 

But if the current silence was not a sign of disappointment after the results... 

“Hm,” Bruce hummed. 

“Indeed, Master Bruce. Now please do go find Master Richard before he shows up in the chandelier again.” 

Over the next few weeks, Alfred attempted to find recipes for meals Richard had mentioned during their cooking session. 

It was rather difficult, considering all he had to go on were descriptions such as “really spicy chicken that we cooked over a fire”, “pasta with white sauce, but it wasn’t cheese”, or “this chicken soup that had peanuts in it but Mom never made it with peanuts again ‘cause the first time Dad started throwing up all over the place.” 

Mary Grayson, it seemed, had picked up recipes from multiple countries throughout the course of Haly’s travels. As well as made up a few herself, if the term “experiment Tuesdays” were anything to go buy. 

It was an endearing piece of information about a young woman Alfred had never met, yet, within the past few months, had heard much about. 

But all the same it was rather a pity, because it meant that for Master Richard, _home food_ was not one particular ethnic food group, which made Alfred’s job all the more difficult. 

He was beginning to consider subtle ways to have Richard recall recipes again. It would be easier to identify dishes if he knew some of the ingredients, or had clues to what they were. 

He might not be able to replicate _Mary Grayson’s_ versions of the recipes, but perhaps he could come close. 

Alfred had served in Her Majesty’s secret services for years before leaving that world behind to become, of all things, a butler for a wealthy American family. 

He had received a call that his charges had been murdered, and a request to pick up their child. Who he had gone on to raise. 

He currently lived with a young man who went out every night to beat up criminals while dressed up like a bat. 

Said young man had also showed up one morning with an eight-year-old child. 

He had met aliens, and gods, and Atlanteans. People born with superpowers, and people who gained superpowers in unfortunate incidents. 

So Alfred liked to think very little surprised him now. 

And yet. One Saturday morning, as Alfred flipped bacon in a pan, he very nearly dropped a slice as someone entered the kitchen, humming. 

Silent footsteps, yet heavy, so Master Bruce. 

Alfred turned from the stove. Yes, definitely Master Bruce. 

With a small, satisfied smile on his face. 

Humming. 

“Master Bruce.” 

“Morning, Alfred.” 

Alfred eyed him. “What has you up so early?” 

“Conference meeting at WE,” Bruce said, walking towards the coffee maker. “We had to cancel yesterday, but Lucius insisted it was urgent enough he rescheduled for nine today.” 

Alfred eyed the clock, then Bruce, already dressed in formal clothing. “I suppose that means you won’t be having breakfast.” 

Master Bruce had the grace to look a little sheepish. “No, sorry Alfred.” 

Alfred sighed. Looked like he’d be joining Richard for breakfast; it would be a shame to waste the food he’d just prepared. “Never mind. Now off with you. We wouldn’t want Bruce Wayne to lose his company.” 

Richard bounced into the kitchen about fifteen minutes after Bruce had left. “Morning, Alfie!” 

Alfred smiled. “Good morning, Master Richard.” 

Richard poked his head into the dining room, then out. “Where’s Bruce?” 

“I’m afraid Master Bruce had an urgent meeting this morning.” 

“Oh. Okay.” With that, Richard skipped over to the island and perched on one of the barstools. 

It was an unspoken agreement that whenever Bruce was not home, Richard would eat in the kitchen with Alfred. Usually, the butler would continue his work whilst Richard ate and chattered at the island. More rarely, he would sit down to eat with the boy. The child didn’t like to be alone, and constantly sought out either Alfred or Bruce’s company, unless he was in a dark mood. 

His face lit up when Alfred walked over with two plates, as it always did when the man joined him, and Alfred allowed himself a small smile. 

They’d been eating for a few minutes when Richard reached for the bottle of orange juice Bruce had left on the counter, and paused. From behind the bottle, outside of Alfred’s view, he pulled out a box about the size of a pencil case, wrapped in brown paper with the name _Dick_ written out in Master Bruce’s neat hand. 

“What’s this, Alfie?” 

Alfred recalled Master Bruce’s cheerful demeanor that morning, but he could not for the life of him decide what he may have gotten the boy that would leave him so pleased. “I am sure I have no idea, Master Richard.” 

Richard, with his typical tendency towards the instantaneous, ripped open the brown paper. Alfred considered telling him to wait until he’d finished eating and washed his hands, but quickly dropped the idea when the boy abruptly froze. 

“It’s--” he wiped his fingers on his pajamas-- 

“ _Master Richard_ \--” 

“Sorry, Alfie--” 

\--and then more slowly, eyes focused on the package, Richard removed the paper. 

It was a small cardboard box, printed in purple, yellow, and white marble. A humble, unassuming little thing, but, Alfred thought, watching Master Richard’s silent, awed face, obviously a treasure chest in the boy’s eyes. 

“It’s Mami’s,” he said, and slowly, reverently lifted the lid. It appeared to be full of notecards. 

Dick pulled one out. 

“Chick-en tet-ra-zie-nie.” 

Alfred recalled the excited gleam in Master Bruce’s eye as he had left, and smiled, fond for both his charges. 

And proud. Insanely proud. 

_Well, Master Bruce. It looks as though you have me beat._

“Well, then. Dinner tonight, Master Richard?” 

**Author's Note:**

> When Bruce comes home, Dick hug-attacks him. “Thank you thank you thank you--”  
> LATER  
> Alfred: Well, Master Bruce?  
> Bruce: Well, considering how you said it seemed like Mary Grayson picked up recipes from all over...  
> Alfred: Hm. I hadn’t realized you were listening.  
> Bruce: … (CLEARS THROAT) I figured she may have had them written them down somewhere. A notebook, recipe cards...it’s not the kind of thing a child would think to pack. So I called up Haly’s to see if anyone knew if anything of the sort was around. The knife-thrower's daughter, apparently, was a close friend. She’d kept Mary’s recipes and was delighted to send them to Dick.  
> Alfred: Well, I suppose I’ll be seeing a lot of Master Richard in the kitchen.  
> Bruce SWALLOWS A CHUCKLE: Good luck, Alfred.


End file.
